


all the little boys go upside down

by badteeth



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Age Play, Bathing/Washing, Daddy Kink, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 15:14:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18153527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badteeth/pseuds/badteeth
Summary: Sometimes Mitch needs some extra help resetting after a game.





	all the little boys go upside down

**Author's Note:**

> [oh bet.](https://austonthotthews.tumblr.com/post/183077115258/the-leafs-pr-team-giving-us-the-father-son-content)
> 
>  
> 
> no excuse, brain bad

The loss was bad, in the simmering sort of way that leaks across the locker room even after the usual post-game rituals; resets. There’s a lot of blame to go around. Mitch’s ear are fire red after he leaves his one-on-one with Babcock. The slick, grimy feeling of guilt, of a game poorly played, feels like it’s sunk in deep past his skin. He can feel his body moving weird with it even as he tries to force everything back to normal, and Auston seems be to barrelling towards genuinely annoyed by the time Pat calls out for him.

“Marns, PR’s looking for you.” He’s standing just outside of one of side hallways, hair dry, dressed like he was ready to go home. Mitch’s chest aches. He’d thought all the media people had already left, but sometimes they let people do one-on-ones when the story called for it, but usually not after a game like that or without warning—

“Yeah, sure, totally, cool,” Mitch says, detaching from Auston’s shoulders to stumble in Pat’s direction.

Except the hallway’s empty when he pokes in, and he’s confused just long enough for a strong, rough-only-in-texture hand clasps on the side of his neck and turns his back up against the wall.

“You okay?” 

His attention snaps back away from trying to dig up sound bites. Mitch knows how he’s acting, and, honestly, the meeting had messed with his usual cool-down treatments enough that the whole schedule was just off, and he could  _ feel  _ it, but he doesn’t say any of that.

“Yeah, I just—” Mitch cuts himself off, glances up at Pat as long as can bear, face pinkening. “You know. Shitty game, that fucking move Dahlin pulled in the third…”

Pat lets him go on with a thumb petting soothingly at his neck, so so gentle, until Mitch trails off, leaning heavy into Pat’s grasp and unable to look anywhere but his eyes.

“Do you want me to come back home tonight?” Pat says, softly enough that a warm haze falls over Mitch so strong it’s hard to keep his feet planted on the ground.

Still, he doesn’t feel—he doesn’t think he’s earned this, tonight, so he can’t help but ask, “What for?”

Pat hums a little before saying, “Make sure you don’t get up to anything too crazy tonight. Maybe tuck you in.”

If anyone had walked by or came to look for them, that may have sounded within a reasonable range for chirping, but Mitch’s knees just about gave out from under him. His head’s throbbing—in a good way, now—but they very very very much need to get out of the arena. Like, now.

“Yeah. Yeah yeah yeah.” Mitch pulls himself together enough turn back into the locker room—but not without a second or third glance back—to finish up the last few things he las laying around. Auston’s already fucked off, but Mitch texts him anyway that he’s not going to be around tonight. He gets a little deuces emoji right back, which is kind of dickish but appreciated. Behind him, Mitch can feel Pat watching him, making sure he’s going about things right, and even as it makes it more impatient, he can feel himself focusing in. It’s just easier, sometimes with someone there.

 

* * *

 

Pat listens to the kind of music Mitch’s dad listens to when he’s feeling edgy. The first and only time Mitch brought that up, Pat’s hands had tightened on the wheel, and Mitch had gone silent, and when Pat noticed that’d been quiet for a little too long, he’d picked up a different topic with a sort of forced easiness that Mitch just had to break up.

There are other playlists, too, that Mitch had spent hours curating for him. Pre-game. Songs Mitch and Auston Are Referencing and He Is Not Getting. General audience. For his kids. Christina had gotten really into, like, modern contemporary and jazz after the boys got old enough to understand lyrics, and after she’d gotten sick of nursery songs. Pat doesn’t use them around the boys, like, ever, but he is now. It’s not, like, Mitch’s favorite. He squirms in the back row, next to a car seat. Maybe a stupid spot to choose. He hopes no one sees.

“Pat, can we please turn something else on?” Mitch says, feeling the whine enter his voice without permission.

“No, baby, it’s too late,” Pat responds, glancing back in the rearview mirror. “You’ll have to be getting to bed soon.”

And his voice— Mitch has been lucky, that there haven’t really been vets since he’s made it up that talk down to him like that in the locker room. It even really like that, either. Mitch doesn’t have the words for what Pat does to him. His throat feels so dry he’s sure Pat more sees that hears his  _ okay. _

They spend every night like this at Mitch’s apartment; the sense of separation is good for them both. So it’s not a long drive but it’s long enough drive that Mitch feels himself drift to the, what, violin? Cello? Then wake up to being held upright as a hand undoes his seatbelt. He tries to orientate himself, undo the thing himself, until Pat is shushing in his ear and saying, “It’s okay, it’s okay, I got you.” He should be embarrassed how easy he goes along with it. He should be.

The house is dark and quiet by the time they enter, everyone else either asleep or decidedly tucked away. They don’t turn on any lights walking into the kitchen. Pat settles Mitch on a stool at the island, and gets them both bottles of the fancy, enriched water Pat likes because he gets sick of the taste of Gatorade, and maybe Mitch doesn’t need the sugar, anyway, so late.

Pat settles next to Mitch with his own bottle. He lets Mitch lean into his chest. He doesn’t tell Mitch when or how much to drink, just rubs slowly up and down his back as he sips at it. The arena, the game, everything, already feels so far away. Pat is so, so gentle that the silence barely crests when he asks, “What do you want tonight?”

Mitch knows that Pat would be fine with just doing what he said earlier, tucking him in, calling it a night and going home to his real family. That’d be fine. Fair. It’s better than it was but he still feels— too much, in his head and his body, and he thinks if he went to bed now, he’d stay awake long enough to psych himself back out, and that’s, like, the opposite of the point of this.

It takes a minute for Mitch to work out what he wants, and even longer for him to actually say it. Pat is so patient, the whole time.

“Do you think,” Mitch starts, quiet, mouth awkward and dry. They’ve worked a lot to even get to this point, but shame blooms wide and twisting in his stomach even as he says, face buried over Pat’s heart, “Is it bath time?”

And a hand comes up to cup the back of his head, not guiding him anywhere, just holding, as Pat says, “Yeah, baby, I think that’s a great idea.”

Pat leads them into the bathroom. Mitch leans uselessly against the sink countertop—”Just wait here until I get things all ready for you.”—as Pat leans down, fingers under the tap as the tub fills up. Normally, Mitch hates not butting in and helping with shit, but that’s the whole point of this. Letting Pat take care of him. When Pat’s satisfied, he stands upright again and turns to Mitch. His eyes are still so soft and it makes want Mitch want to stare down to where his toes are curling into the soft blue bath mat his mother had given him. It’s pretty much the only way stuff like that gets into his apartment.

“Have to get these clothes off before we can get you all nice and clean,” Pat says, hands settling under the hem of Mitch’s shirt at his hips. It’s a gentle, patient touch. Still asking for permission. 

“I know, I’m not stupid,” Mitch mumbles even as he raises his arms, face flushing even brighter when he hears Pat say, “I know you’re not. I know.”

The shirt comes off, then his pants, and finally his underwear. Pat smiles so nicely when he’s done. “You’re being such a good boy for me tonight. Are you excited about your bath?”

Mitch shrugs, a roll of his shoulders. His skin is prickling in the cool air. “I guess.”

He’s never been the kind of guy anyone would describe as quiet. Ever. Being able to reliably fill dead air is kind of his thing. But what Pat does to him, this space he puts Mitch in, it’s like it turns all the noise in his head down to a murmur. Everything falls away except letting Pat take care of him, like this.

Mitch lets Pat help him settle into the tub, cooler and more shallow than Mitch would do for himself. He’d showered at the rink but Pat still gets this super soft washing cloth—also probably from Mitch’s mom—and goes over him again. Pat keeps up a steady, soft stream of commentary and compliments the whole time, so there aren’t any surprises. Behind his ears, down his arms, between his toes. Mitch still has to be extra careful not to squirm then. 

When it’s time to wash his hair, Pat tells Mitch to put his head back. Water pours down over his head, blocked from his face by a wide hand at the base of his forehead. A bowl had migrated into the bathroom from the kitchen the first time they did this; Mitch’s housekeeper kept trying to put it back for awhile.

Pat takes his time working the shampoo into Mitch’s hair, even though he doesn’t exactly have a lot of it. Strong fingers scratch at his scalp, making his head nod gently with the force. It sent tingles down his back. He couldn’t help moaning, just a little, at the back of his throat. Pat laughs, and Mitch feels a smile tug at his mouth, even though he knows he needs to keep his eyes and mouth closed.

“You’re such a good boy for me, Mitchy,” Pat says as he rinses away the last of the shampoo, hands wiping the suds down the back of Mitch’s neck.

Mitch’s whole body feels warm and loved and cared for, and he can’t think past Pat, his pride, his obvious love. He has to be deep, like this, to say, “Thank you, Daddy.”

Pat makes a noise at that, kissing the top of Mitch’s head. They stay like that for a little bit, just to the two of them, but it’s late and the water always seems to cool so fast towards the end, so Pat pulls the drain stopper and helps Mitch up on wobbly legs, before wrapping him up in the biggest towel he owns.

In the bedroom, Pat dresses Mitch in his usual sleep clothes, a t-shirt and some boxers, before helping him into bed. Usually, Mitch likes some room to maneuver in his sleeping situation, but it’s nice to have Pat pull the quilt up around him, too, and tuck in the corners. Sometimes, after good games, Pat will stay up and read recaps, paper thin but reassuring anyway. On the road, he usually has a book he’s working through on a Kindle. Now, though, as good and nice as Mitch feels, there’s still a niggling something. Pat is looking down at him, so fond but also like he’s getting ready to leave, and Mitch just. Isn’t ready.

“Wait,” he says. “I need something. To help me sleep.”

“Yeah, baby? What do you need?”

Usually, Mitch is fairly decent at answering that question, but like this, he isn’t, can’t think straight, things tucked away or reordered in ways that don’t quite make sense in the moment. His mouth drops open as he tries to force himself into thinking, and it isn’t meant as a hint but Pat’s thumb at his lips puts a pause on his thoughts, like,  _ oh, yeah, this. _

“Need something to suck on? Help you calm down?” Pat says, and he sounds so understanding. Like always. Mitch wraps his mouth around Pat’s thumb and nods, moaning. They don’t usually do that, like this, but right now Mitch wants it, and he loves that Pat does, too. It’s hard to remember that he gets anything out of this, no matter how many times he tells Mitch.

It take a little rearranging, but eventually Mitch’s head is in Pat’s lap, the head of his cock held in his mouth. He’s suckling on it carefully, thoroughly. Like he would a pacifier, or a bottle, and Mitch can’t. He can’t even hold those in his head, not even right now, like this. Pat is petting the side of his head so carefully, telling him how much of a good boy he is for his Daddy, so caring, so generous, so good, and Mitch just wants to focus on what’s in front of him.

There’s never really a rush, but eventually Pat starts breathing faster, and while he doesn’t take his cock out of Mitch’s mouth, the hand that hasn’t started holding Mitch’s head in place reaches down and starts jerking at the length Mitch’s mouth hasn’t even touched.

It’s not quite a surprise when Pat comes, but Mitch still coughs around it, enough that Pat sits him upright and rubs his back, cooing softly. 

“M’ fine,” Mitch mumbles. His eyes feel so heavy.

“You’re perfect,” Pat says. “Do you want…?” Mitch shakes his head,  _ no.  _ “No, ‘course not, you’re such a good boy. Don’t want to get all messy again after your bath, huh?”

Sleep is creeping into Mitch faster now, so all he can do is mumble and turn closer into Pat again, one last time, before he slips out to sleep in the guest room, like always—another little thing that works for both of them, letting the next day slip back in normalcy before they have interact with teammates or friends or family. Pat tucks Mitch in again, brushes a hand through his hair one last time before backing away, dimming lights. At the door, he hesitates.

“Goodnight, baby.”

“G’night, Daddy.”

**Author's Note:**

> mostly on [tumblr](http://mogilny.tumblr.com) | sometimes on [twitter](https://twitter.com/post_madonna)
> 
> thank you to everyone who commented when i was still hiding in anon <3


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